


Through the Camera Lens

by FixaIdea



Category: Maurice (1987), Maurice - E. M. Forster, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, M/M, Slice of Life, mentions of Alec/Maurice, mundane mysteries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-30 13:16:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20772839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FixaIdea/pseuds/FixaIdea
Summary: Greg Lestrade stumbles across a strange old photo.





	Through the Camera Lens

(I know this should go into the notes section but I don't know how to put a link there. So. This work has been inspired by [this photo](https://fixaidea.tumblr.com/post/187925740534).)

Greg Lestrade had the faintest of hopes that this time he could spend a weekend by the seaside completely free of crimesolving, but naturally he barely had the time to settle in at his hotel when Sherlock and John turned up out of nowhere and demanded his help with a case. At this point Lestrade wasn’t even surprised.

He expected to spend this Saturday relaxing on the shore with a beer, yet here he was, in a dusty old antiques shop, interviewing the cashier with John. They were trying not to look suspicious, just a couple of tourists asking about the lot, nothing to see here, move along please, so after they were done with their questions they stayed loitering awhile, pretending to be interested in the wares. Watson was inspecting an old lamp while Lestrade busied himself by leafing through a stack of old photographs.

Faded pages of sepia and grey, pictures of people no one remembered or cared about anymore, 10p a piece. Lestrade sighed and was about to give up the pretense of interest and walk out when he froze.

There were two young men on the photo in his hand, and the one seated in the foreground looked hauntingly familiar. The picture might as well have been stolen from his own college yearbook, only it was black and white. He flipped it over.

_M. Hall, A. Scudder, 05/11/1914_

Presumably the photographer’s notes. Lestrade would have remained there, rooted to the ground for a long while, but John’s little cough abruptly brought him back to reality. He quickly stepped up to the counter, bought the photo and hurried after John.

Once outside John grinned up at him.

‘Found a souvenir?’

Lestrade handed him the picture. John took a look at it, blinked, looked at Lestrade, back at the photo, flipped it over and looked back again at Lestrade.

‘A relative?’

‘I suppose so. Scudder was my grandma’s maiden name. All I know is my branch of the family took a detour to Argentina, but that’s about it.’

John handed back the picture. Lestrade took another look at it, this time sparing some attention to the other figure too. Tall, blond fellow, arm companionably slung over the sitting man’s shoulder. This must be Hall. A friend? A cousin? Lestrade had little hope for ever finding out. He stared at the photo for a moment more - the two men stared back at him. There was someting about their expression, something Lestrade could not quite put his finger on.

With a small shrug he pocketed the photo and headed back to his hotel.

***

He all but forgot about the strange picture until on one dreary Friday night his phone rang, announcing Sherlock Holmes in the caller ID. Lestrade picked it up with a heavy sigh.

‘I was extremely bored’ said Sherlock in lieu of greeting.

The most ominous possible combination of words out of his mouth. Lestrade could feel his eyes rolling skywards without his conscious permission.

‘Do you need the Bomb Disposal Unit?’

‘Nope.’

Lestrade could have sworn he heard disappointment in his voice.

‘John told me that if I set the fire alarm off one more time this month he would move out’ Sherlock went on ‘So I looked into that photo of yours instead.’

‘What pho…? Oh! The photo! I thought it would be impossible to get anything out of that.’

The notion that any mystery would be too obscure for Sherlock Holmes was met with a snort and not dignified with a verbal answer.

‘Anyway’ said Sherlock ‘If you feel like paying a visit to great-great uncle Alec and his friend, they are buried at Lyme Regis, in Dorset.

***

The headstone was surprisingly fine - nothing fancy, but neatly done. Lestrade smiled a little. Apparently someone at least cared enough to make it, and cared enough to bury Uncle Alec with his lifelong partner.

_Maurice Hall (1888-1973)  
Alec Scudder (1890-1974)_

They lived a long enough life that Sherlock was able to talk to people who used to know them in person. The pair shared a cottage on the outskirts - pretty much everyone was aware they were together, but hardly anyone cared. They never caused any trouble and in turn were left to their business.

Lestrade pulled out the picture. Now he knew for sure what he saw in the eyes of these men: _defiance_. Pride and defiance, daring the world to try and separate them.

Lestrade grinned.


End file.
